It's Like Being On Broadway
by Novelist Pup
Summary: AU: Wherein hair design student Lenalee Lee considers her relationship with her styling rival, the suspiciously homosexual and perpetually smiling Allen Walker--and, yeah, it doesn't look too good. :Allen/Lenalee
1. It's Like Climbing Big Ben

**It's Like Being On Broadway**

This is without a doubt the gayest thing I have ever written.

And it's _Allen/Lenalee_—that is SAYING something.

And, meh, it's a short fic. Will likely have four to five chapters, and probably with be updated at a normal pace until I get close to the end. Because, if you know how I do, then you know how I do.

**Disclaimed.**

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* * *

1! It's Like Climbing Big Ben**

Allen Walker and Lenalee Lee first met in a co-educational secondary school, as all clichés will go.

It was a generally anticlimatic affair—one would think that love at first sight would have more _sparkles_ and _explosions_ and _action_ and _adventure_.

Well, Lenalee frowned. Maybe love at first sight was like that. Like, the two never did fall in love or even stumble anything past a purely platonic like back then.

"But don't get me wrong," she told Allen in her eleventh year of schooling. "You really are a sweet kid." She meant it, too. "There's just something…_off_ about you."

Allen Walker, that sweet, short, skinny, young, white-haired, scarred kid from Manchester. He took it all in stride.

"What might be so _off_ about me?" he had joked back then, twirling a lock of his white hair. "Perhaps, my hair?"

Lenalee laughed, but she never did actually answer.

But, she had a good reason not to! It was more like she never _discovered_ the answer until the untimely meddling of fate years in the future.

**(It's Like...)**

"Hmm, a little short on the left," a tall, curly-haired Frenchman commented, circling the dummy head of a mannequin. "But, the back layers are simply _magnifique!_ Once again, Lenalee—your styling is nothing less than excellent!"

Lenalee blushed, laughing sheepishly. "Thanks, Tiedoll," she said demurely. "I try."

"Mmm," but her elation was abruptly cut short once she heard the horrible, terrible, _presumptuous_ hum from her one and only rival, her sole enemy, her personal antagonist. "You were actually trying? Pfft, how grand."

The Chinese woman narrowed her eyes. "You know what, Allen?" she replied with a smile. "Get fucked. Your hatertude is messing up your _darling_ complexion."

Allen _goddamn_ Walker quirked a perfectly arched eyebrow. "Now it sounds like you're implying two things," he countered in his thickly accented tenor. "One, that you actually have things to hate on. And, two, that I need to have sex in order to be happy. We all can't be you, Miss Lee." He smiled charmingly, leaning against his station.

_Homo_, Lenalee thought spitefully. _You…you penis-lover!_ She pointed her scissors at the man with as much threatening intent as possible.

He just shrugged at her, smiling _more_.

What _happened_ after she graduated, Lenalee found herself lamenting _again_. She's been lamenting this a lot lately.

Her old friend, that sweet yet odd boy who would always be one year younger than her, he seemed to have died a horribly violent and bloody death in a car accident. This must've happened pre-cosmotology school, see.

As it was, in his place came _this_ asshole—the taller, smarter, polite yet severely more sarcastic Englishman with a perpetually stylish haircut.

No, actually, screw that—everything _about_ Allen Walker was stylish. It was like he knew the trends before Paris, he knew what was in before it was even _out_, he knew the definition of style better than Merriam-Webster.

Allen Walker, the twenty-year-old cosmetology student, really came across as a stand-offish metrosexual.

Like, you know—those gay guys that you can't _call_ gay just because they work in a hair salon, but they sure do seem like homos. Metrosexual, or "metro" for short.

"You—" Lenalee started, sniping the scissors in her fingers threateningly.

Tiedoll laughed, delighted. "Allen, Lenalee, calm down," he said kindly. "No need for animosity. Lenalee, you are _definitely_ rising above the styling ranks with your punk, prepatory cuts. And, Allen," the Frenchman wandered over to Allen's station, rubbing his goatee. "You…you…"

The man and woman stared him down, awaiting his answer. His grading of Allen's work would make or break their rivalry, so it was terribly important that he make the correct choice.

Tiedoll eyed the mannequin. "The gentle swoop of the bang towards the left," he said seriously. "The way in which the hair falls in one peculiar direction—the attention you give to the hairline! It's amazing, Allen—_fantastique!_ My only problem is the right side, as it is a little bland. You seem to focus all of your attention on one particular side, if that makes any sense."

Allen sighed, flipping his white hair out the way of his eyes. "Of course," he replied with a smile. "I understand completely."

"Wonderful!" Tiedoll chuckled, patting the young man on the shoulder. "Then, that is _that_. I'm going to give you both a ninety-four—hooray!"

A ninety-four? The twenty-one-year-old woman's eyebrow twitched. That put her current grade at a ninety-six, which was the same grade _as_ her rival, which meant that _nothing_ has changed in the order of who is the best stylist.

Lenalee forced a smile upon her face. "Oh, yeah," she said tersely. "That's, uh, great."

"Fantastic," Allen agreed with his teeth clenched as well.

"Of course!" their teacher just laughed in his forever ignorant manner, and he toddled away from his two best students. "Well, I'll see you two on Monday. We'll be working on long hair next week, so get your hair ready!" And he walked out the room, chortling in delight.

The air instantly turned heated in that classroom slash salon.

"Jesus, Allen!" Lenalee snapped, placing her hands on her hips in offense. "Can you quit being a self-important _ass_ and just let me have my top spot? _Can you_?"

Allen snorted, crossing his silk-clad arms. "Which I would be more than _happy_ to do if you would allow me _my_ glorious victory, Lenalee Lee!" he retorted, huffing.

"Augh!" She wanted to rip out her hair—really, she did. "You're insufferable! Incompatible! Insane! Inbelievable!"

"Inbelieveable is not—"

"This is my _care face_, Walker," Lenalee said seriously, pointing at her unimpressed visage. "Do you see it? The _care_? Because I don't. Do you know why I don't see the care? Because I simply _don't care_."

"Or so I found myself understanding," Allen replied drolly. He flipped his white bangs out the way of his eyes, _again_, and stepped from behind his station. "As much as I'd love to stand here and banter with someone such as yourself, it's time for lunch." He smiled like a goddamn _angel_.

Lenalee rolled her eyes. "Whatever," she said, placing her mannequin in a duffle bag. "As long as I don't have to look at _your_ face anymore today."

"The feeling is, indeed, shared," he muttered, shouldering his styling 'laptop bag' that looked more like a purse.

"Truly."

"Indubitably."

They stared each other down, frowns upon their lips.

"Goodbye, Lenalee," Allen finally said, walking away.

Lenalee stared at him as he left through the classroom door.

Those skinny jeans made his ass look a little round, she mused without realizing it. Then, she blanched, because that was not the thought process one has for their academic rival!

"Hmph!" she huffed, tossing her duffle over her own shoulder. "God, it's great I won't be seeing _him_ again."

**(It's Like...)**

_Damn you Allen Walker_, Lenalee found herself thinking for the nth time that day. _Damn you to homo hell! Or wherever it is gay people go when they die. San Francisco?_

This required some research, she decided as she sipped on her ice water with a tang of lemon. She glared at Allen the entire time, though. It wasn't like the man didn't spend some of _his_ free time staring at _her_, the creeper.

Lenalee was a trendy young woman, and she knew this. Her hair reflected the style of the time but five times better, her clothes were _always_ above and beyond the normal flow of the average woman, and her _shoes_. There was _nobody_ in this city who could possibly contend with her concerning _shoes_.

It only made sense that a trendy woman and a trendy man would have the same circle of friends, regardless of their feelings for the other.

"—congrats on passing your hair test thing," Lavi, no last name, said exuberantly, patting Lenalee on the shoulder in a masculine but gentle way. "I knew you could do it."

"I'm glad _someone_ did," Allen muttered in such a quiet voice that one would think he never said anything.

But Lenalee heard him.

And she _wasn't_ impressed.

"Bitch I'll kill you," she said cheerfully. "And quit hating—it makes your pale, splotchy skin look gross."

Allen cocked an eyebrow, rubbing his cheeks with one gloved hand. "Does it really?" he asked with faux-worry, the jerk. He turned to the man next to him, still rubbing his cheeks. "Kanda, do I look gross to you?"

"You look like you have AIDS in the face," Yuu Kanda answered honestly. Lenalee loved that guy—he was so blunt it was cute.

Too bad he was, you know. _Gay_. Not metro, though—she was pretty sure that Kanda only liked dick, cock, and penis too. Allen was just…_confusing_.

Lavi laughed, bringing his martini to his lips. "Naw, dude," he said in a reassuring manner. "You look as gorgeous as ever, my favorite Englishman."

Allen was pleased. "Why, thank you, Lavi," he replied in what _sounded_ oddly flirtatious.

_Manho_, Lenalee thought, guzzling down her water in spite. "_Any_way!" she started, putting in an active effort to turn the conversation _away_ from Allen Walker. "How did _your_ test go, Kanda?"

Kanda cocked an eyebrow, crossing his intriguingly ripped arms. Dear _Lord_ he was hot for a jackass. "I passed, _duh_," he replied like it was _so_ obvious.

"Passed with what?" Allen asked, leaning his chin against the palm of a hand. "With a ninety?"

"What? No." The Japanese man snorted at the mere _thought_ of such. "I passed with a fuckin' _seventy-two_, ass."

Lenalee and Allen found themselves sharing a look, as terrible and completely mortifying as it was to have something in common.

"Um." Lenalee furrowed her eyebrows. "_Why_?" Kanda was the _best_, and she meant _best_, barber she knew. He was great with _all_ kinds of haircuts—the crew cuts, the flattops, the high and tights, the hime cut (well, that's because he sported it himself), and even the high-top fade cuts. Kanda was _amazing_.

"Man, that douche said that I have 'bad people skills,'" the older man explained. "Said that calling the customer an 'asswipe' and telling them to 'go fuck themselves' wasn't good for a barber in training. I told him to touch his mother."

Lavi snortled, obviosuly trying not to laugh. "Because you are _obviously_ the nicest guy here," he stated with minimum sarcasm.

"Shut the hell up, fuckface." Kanda scowled. "You don't even go to our goddamn school."

While Lavi faked a look of shock and hurt, Lenalee knew it to be true. The tall, one-eyed redhead didn't attend the Vatican School of Beauty; he didn't attend _any_ cosmetology school.

Lavi was more like a freelance model and photographer. He just knew Kanda, who knew Lenalee, who knew Allen, who _also_ knew Kanda, and then the cycle continues. Because of his connection, the man generally just wanders onto the campus to harass Kanda or rally the trio up for a lunch at the _Order_.

It was very bum-like, Lenalee believed, but whatever. He still dressed better than the majority of high society, and was handsome if you were into guys who were missing a few eyes.

"Oh, _Yuu_—"

"Shut your whore mouth, asshole."

Lenalee shook her head and smiled, and then she looked out the café window towards the busy, mainstream streets and crowded, colorful sidewalks.

She lived in this place—this small metropolitan area (if that made any sort of sense) in the United States of America. It was in California, yeah, but that only intensified the seriousness in which her success in this school had to show.

But, her train of self-expositionary thought was cut off by the prickling feeling of a particularly hard _stare_.

Lenalee turned around, cocking an eyebrow.

Allen continued to stare at her, drumming his long fingers against the table. Which, actually, was kind of weird, considering how he usually stopped staring once she turned around to catch his sneaky ass.

"…_What_?" she asked, immediately getting on the defensive. You just don't _let_ your guard down around Allen Walker—people _die_ or lose the top spot in class this way. "What do you want, jerkface?"

"A particularly mature handle, but not by much for your standards," the British man replied with so much sarcasm that it dripped from his lips.

"Look, jerk, if you're just gonna—"

He shook his head. "Okay, I apologize, Lenalee," he interuptted her calmly. "It's just that…how do I word this?"

Lenalee stared at him, waiting for the douche to finish his sentences.

"I can't stop thinking of you," Allen finally said, shaking his head with a small frown. The Chinese woman cocked an eyebrow—that wasn't the look of someone who was pleased with the thought of a pretty young lady like herself. "Everytime I go home, whenever I'm walking into the Hollister store, and even when I am watching Lifetime—I think of you."

Lavi and Kanda stopped arguing at this point, and even the bad-tempered Japanese man stopped to hear whatever Allen was trying to say.

Lenalee, though, was a little nervous. Was this an inkling of her old, best friend from secondary school? He _didn't_ die a mortifying blood involving a tree and some drugs?

"And please don't think of me as presumptuous," _Too late_, Lenalee thought, hiding her expression behind her almost empty glass of water. "It's just…" Why the _hell_ was he being so cute and nervous about this? Wait, she meant just nervous. Yes.

"Please, just say it," the woman said suddenly, rubbing her temples. "Just, just _end_ this."

Allen nodded, smiling. "Then, may I style your hair?" he asked. "For my final project, that is."

The request, though, didn't really _hit_ Lenalee until the water she was _planning_ on swallowing somehow was projectile spat across the table.

Allen Walker wanted _what_ from her?!

**1! Or Maybe It Isn't**

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Fuck you FFN and your cockblock of my personal linebreaks SHIT

So, yeah, this won't be a long fic at all. Yep yep, it's a spur of the moment thing—it does not take precedence over other important fics, like AWYWI or this ultra-long one-shot I'm working on.

Be aware though that a metrosexual really isn't gay. It's just a guy that cares about how he looks, so don't worry 'kay guize?

By the by, if you know me, Novelist Pup (or Duke Kaza the 3rd), then you'd know that I frequently write faggots. And by frequently, I mean ALL THE TIME. This is the second heterosexual main pairing fic I have EVER written. Ever. Allenalee is NOT my OTP by a long shot—I actually think they are BFFs like whoa, and that any sexual relations is going to end in horrible horrible failure. I also thought that if they were in a relationship past platonic, that it would be the most BORING thing EVER. Then again, Kanda/Allen is also HORRIBLY BORING, so I decided what did I have to lose? And I took the gayest plot I could possibly imagine and stuck this pairing into it.

Yeah, I am JUST THAT AWESOME.

(No I'm not)

**I still do not have spellcheck** and **I still possess an unnatural fear of a beta reader** but feel free to tell me if there is a spelling or grammatical mistake.

**But, if you find any need to tell me of anything else you don't like, such as the plot or characterizations, then feel free to NOT tell me about it**. Like, at all. C: Love yooooou guuuuuize


	2. It's Like Surfing the Sahara

Hey guize I'm back again with the gayest heterosexual DGM fic ever. At least from a point of view.

Anyway. Who wants some character development??! :D

(Please read the ending author's notes VERY CAREFULLY, btw. I'd like it if you did, at least.)

**2! It's Like Surfing the Sahara**

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Allen Walker and Lenalee Lee met _again_ in her second year of attending the Vatican School of Beauty.

It was more anti-dramatic than their first meeting, as despite how people don't actually _forget_ Allen—he makes it a bit difficult—she still found herself struggling to remember the guy.

He had walked up to her and everything, a jovial smile on his thin lips. When he moved, his entire _body_ moved, and he had the walk of an ambiguous model in the public.

Lenalee, though, could only think that _Wow, this dude is seriously homosexual._

"Lenalee Lee?" he had greeted with that excited smile upon his face. "Is that really you? My, I haven't seen you in, well, years!"

She stared at him for at least three minutes, her scissors poised over the silky hair of her favorite mannequin.

Then, it _did_ hit her. Like a freight train.

"Allen Walker?" she exclaimed, eyes wide. The scissors fell from her fingers and clattered against the marble surface of her station—they were forgotten in the untimely reunion. "Oh my God, it's been, like, forever!"

Lenalee took in his long, slender legs that were clad in the upscale denim of Tommy Hilfiger, his long-sleeved black V-neck Dolce and Gabbana shirt, his shorter-than-she-remembered white hair that was perfectly cut on the left over his ear, and the long strands of silky hair that fell over to the right.

_Just…whoa_, she remembered thinking. _He got…really gay. In a cute way, I guess._

They did share a quick embrace, for back then they were overjoyed to be able to see each other again. She had noticed that he was at least three centimeters taller than her—a major change from their old days in school. The kid used to be nearly a midget!

"Likewise," Allen said, and his smile finally dropped after their short hug. His gray eyes narrowed at the sight of her head. "Oh, Lenalee, your _hair_…"

Lenalee quirked an eyebrow. "What about it?" she had asked with a bit of suspicion. At the time, the woman was still defensive about her lost locks.

A gloved hand had thread itself through the dark fuzz that was currently her hair on the sides. "My God," Allen had muttered, his eyebrows furrowed. "Your hair was so…_gorgeous_—no offense, of course."

"It's a little too late to say _no offense_," Lenalee replied blandly, and she batted his hand away with a small frown. She _hated_ to talk about the loss of her hair. "I mean, dude, how have you been? Come on, let's change the subject. I like your shoes." They were some _really_ nice shoes for a man. Very shiny and stuff.

Allen retracted his hand, smiling bashfully. "I'm terribly sorry," he had said. "I was just caught so off guard by your lesbian mohawk of a haircut that—"

Lenalee remembered punching him the stomach. It was like her fist had a mind of it's own—really!

Yeah, he did _not_ react well to it, even a year into them meeting again. Fate really enjoyed messing with Lenalee's life.

**(It's Like...)**

"No," Lenalee said calmly, dabbing at her lips with a napkin. "I will _not_ be your…your _mannequin_, you homo!"

"Lenalee, you are thinking unreasonably about this," Allen replied with just as much patience, wiping at his face with his own handkerchief. The water from her lips hit his forehead, and he was being very civil about it, the jerk. "You are probably only rejecting me because of your misplaced animosity—"

The Chinese woman gaped, tightening her hold on her glass. "_My_ misplaced animosity—"

Lavi nudged Kanda in the stomach with his elbow. "Ooh, I smell a catfight," he whispered loudly. Lenalee secretly rolled her eyes—leave it to Lavi to try and start shit.

"Shut the hell up," and Kanda shoved him away. He usually didn't react well to touch, and this was no different. "First of all, there're no fucking felines here _for _a catfight, retard." Kanda was really awesome, but he was also a little _too _literal in most ways. "Secondly, the faggot and Lenalee need to get this shit straightened out—so, _I'm_ out. Fuck all of you." His chair screeched against the linoleum floor, and the Japanese man simply stood up and walked away.

Lenalee watched him go with wide eyes. God, Kanda was so freaking cool about everything.

"…Well!" the red-haired man laughed, delighted. "Now it's just you and me and you too, Britface. But, don't mind me—I'll call the police when you start scratching each others eyes out."

"…Thank you, I'd suppose," Allen replied blandly. Lenalee was seriously considering _hatred_ for the young member of high society, and this urge flared as he turned towards her with that _goddamn_ smile. "Now, please, Lenalee—"

"Please _nothing_, jerkface," she snapped, crossing her arms over her admittedly soft chest. Big breasts were pretty useful in situations like these, she liked to think. "You, you've been nothing less than an _ass_ to me since last September! And now you want something from me? What kind of self-entitled _freak_—"

The Englishman's smile twitched. "It seems that you possess a _terribly_ selective memory, Lenalee Lee," he said tersely. "As I remember you, not me, punching a hole in my poor, fragile stomach." He rubbed his _poor, fragile_ stomach for an example.

"You called me a _lesbian!_"

"No, I said you had a _lesbian mohawk_ and that it _wasn't attractive_!" Allen was getting a little frustrated. _Good_.

Lenalee sniffed, affronted. "And you think that is the kind of thing you tell a young woman after three years of _not_ seeing each other?" she demanded, hitting a fist on the table gently. There were other people in the café who were eyeing them; but whether it was for entertainment or caution, she would never know.

"I was shocked, Lenalee," Allen rubbed his temples, with his white, thin eyebrows furrowed in irritation. Lenalee was personally _pleased_ that he was having a hard time right now. "Your hair of previous, it was _beautiful_—the thought of your long locks in my hands was the closest thing I had to _euthymia_, Lenalee."

_Whoa_, Lenalee thought with a weird look. _Faggot say what?_ "Excuse me?" she said instead, blinking.

"Yeah, _what_?" Lavi interjected, cocking an eyebrow as well. "This just got weird."

"Your hair is the entire reason I aimed to become the best stylist possible," the British man explained with a small flush across his cheeks. "The thought of those silky strands—doused in glosser and curled against the back of your neck—"

"You're freaking me out, Allen." Lenalee cut him off quickly. "I…I'm a little weirded out right now. You, my rival in hair design, just told me that you love my former hair more than I do. You are secretly creepy, aren't you?"

Allen shrugged, smiling at her. "As much as _you_ are secretly a lady-lover—yes, indeed I noticed how _defensive_ you got over the aspect of being a lesbian." The grin widened. "Is there something you'd like to tell us?"

Lenalee did not know what to think. This…this _asshole_ shadow of her former best friend, he was unbelievable! Ridiculous! Completely unfathomable!

She stood up from her chair, brushing off her knee-length black skirt. "No," she replied with a mirrored smile. "But, I do need to do something before I leave." She picked up her glass and leaned over.

Then she dumped whatever water and the remainders of the ice over his presumptuous, bitchy, white head.

"Suck on that, Eurofag," she crowed triumphantly, and walked away to the sweet sound of Allen's displeasure and Lavi's infinite amusement.

**(It's Like...)**

Froi Tiedoll was really Lenalee's favorite teacher.

No, seriously. He was really nice for a comsetology professor (as they were well-known for being arrogant and pushy), and he was the only man she knew that could pull off a moustache with sideburns like the ones he sported.

"Since you two are my favorite and most amazing students," Tiedoll began excitedly on a Tuesday afternoon, his hands each on a shoulder of the rivals. "I am going to give you a project. It will be fun, yes!"

Lenalee stared at him. "Are you sure this will be fun, Tiedoll?" she asked suspiciously. Anything including Allen Walker—Twenty-Year-Old Metrosexual Edition—was not doomed to be fun, as it was destined for _ultimate frustration_ and _harried lamenting of a forgotten past_.

The Frenchman chuckled, squeezing both their shoulders in his mirth. "Of course it will be fun…at least for an amateur stylist!" said Tiedoll happily.

Even Allen von Homodouche was looking a little off. "Um." He coughed lowly in his throat. "…What is it, if I may be so entitled to ask?"

"It's really quite _facile_," Tiedoll replied, finally relinquishing his hold on their shoulders. "You two…both of you have an incredible amount of potential. I do not even _see_ great things in your future—I only _know_ you both will take the hair design world by storm."

Lenalee ducked her head in order to fight off the embarassed blush that threatened to overtake her white face. It always made her even a _little_ happy just to know that someone liked what she did as much as _she_ liked what she did.

"But—" and the blush died. She did _not_ like the sound of that 'but,' "—you have your flaws, as all humans go. Allen!" Tiedoll turned to the Englishman, grinning. "Your dedicated attention to detail is incredible, Mr. Walker. I give you a comb and a pair of scissors, and _voila!_ You have turned a regular perm into something…_stupéfier_!"

"Oh…" Allen's face was pink with his own cute—sorry, _splotchy_—blush, and he sheepishly looked down at his shiny, upscale shoes that probably cost half his tuition. "I'm…err…I mean…thank you, Tiedoll."

"And Lenalee," the Chinese woman jumped to attention at the sound of her name. "You show a clear handle of many, _many_ styling techniques, yet you always bring tears to my eyes with your signature punk-prep style that makes everything fun! I give you a crop-cut, you give me a layered Dido-flip with gravity defying effects. Both of you are just incredible, I promise you!"

Were those their flaws? Lenalee was a little confused, really.

"No, these are not your flaws," the sandy-haired man said with a kind smile. Wait, the French can read minds as well as predict the fashion cycle and eat generally gross animals? "Your issues are deep within your techniques, actually."

_What the hell are you talking about?_ Lenalee thought with her left eyebrow raised very slightly.

Tiedoll walked over to Lenalee's station, holding a tanned hand over her latest practice mannequin. "Lenalee," he began with a grin. "You don't care much for form. As much as I might encourage a bit of style, this bothers me." He lightly touched the stiff ends of the mannequin's red pixie cut. "Don't go _too_ out of the box—pay attention to the small details that make that design just _that design_. _Comprenez-vous_?"

Oh. _Well_.

Lenalee looked at her mannequin, it was like she felt her heart weigh a little heavier in her chest. This must've been the feeling of distinct disappointment with one's self, if that made any sort of sense.

"Yeah," she answered carefully, looking up at her instructor. "I get it."

Allen, thankfully, kept his commentary to himself. In fact, he looked a little awkward. He was leaning against a chair, his legs crossed at the ankles for that model effect, but he kept his eyes towards the wall behind Lenalee with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his black jeans.

"Allen, you have about the same problem," Tiedoll continued, wandering over to the white-haired man's station. "But, _intéressant_, it is about reversed. Your attention to detail is unparalleled in this institution, I can assure you. Yet, you have a bit of a focus issue. Allen, you spend so much effort perfecting the design that…well…it almost looks _bland_."

That…that was probably a _knife_ to her rival's own heart, if she knew even a _smidgen_ of his personality.

Allen made a _very _miniscule wince, but kept his head up.

Lenalee kind of felt for him. If only he weren't such a pseudo-homo ass.

"Do not be discouraged, though," their instructor said, walking back towards their direction. "That is why I am giving you this project. It will only count towards forty percent of your grade, so, _oui_." His smile was wide on his lips.

Lenalee, though, was gaping. "_Forty_ percent?!" she demanded. "That's, like, _almost half_ of my grade! This is madness!"

"Actually, this is life," Tiedoll corrected her kindly. "I made it worth that much in order to dissuade my two favorite students from _not_ doing the project. You would fail otherwise!"

He laughed heartily, but neither of his 'two favorite students' were even smiling.

"You're a shrewd fox," Allen muttered, brushing some misplaced locks of hair from her face. "Hmm. Well, it can't be helped. What is it that we're being forced into, sir?" The smile on his face was _blinding_.

Lenalee wondered where her sunglasses were as she also ceded to her French instructor with a shrug. "As long as it isn't a group activity, I'm good," she said with a quirky grin.

Tiedoll chuckled. "That is, how do you say—the _spirit!_" he exclaimed, his hands on his French-namebrand denim-clad hips. "_Bon_, _bon_. Now, it's a simple experiment, _oui_? I need you two to, well, _work together_ for this—"

"It's a group activity?!" Oh _hell_ no.

"—let me finish, Miss Lee." The Frenchman smiled. "You and Mr. Walker have a bit of an animosity issue as I have noticed, but be assured that it will be all but dispelled by the end of this!" He clapped his hands together in glee. "Allen is going to give you a hair design to perfect, and you will do the same to him. I will give you both three days to finish unless otherwise noted, and I expect you both to critique the other's progress everyday of the project. _Comprenez-vous_?"

Both her and Allen were shellshocked, their mouths open and eyes wide.

"Ahem. _Comprenez-vous_?"

"Ah!" Lenalee rubbed behind her neck, smiling awkwardly. "Y-yes, Tiedoll. Comprenez-vous."

"Comprenez-vous," Allen also spoke, his eyes closed as he rubbed his temples. "Sir, Tiedoll, may I—"

"No _buts_ or exceptions, Mr. Walker." Tiedoll grinned. "Come now, this will not be hard! I believe that if you two were to team up, the results could be either distasterous or life-altering."

_Neither of those sound very good,_ Lenalee idly thought as she fixed her skinny jeans for a distraction.

"But, I mean—" But even the token metrosexual Englishman quieted down after a look from the kind-hearted instructor. "—I understand."

"Good. Now, shake hands!"

Now the man was just asking for a hankering. Lenalee paused, as maybe she was using that word wrong. Whatever—she wasn't from an English-speaking country anyway. She just lived in them for the majority of her life.

Allen ran his gloved fingers through his hair, still looking everywhere but at his female counterpart.

Ugh. The Chinese woman sighed and stepped forward, holding out her hand.

She was doing this for her grade—Allen was still a douchebag, and Lenalee still missed her old best friend from those days in secondary school. She just had to realize that either Allen has changed for the worst or there's a very good reason he's been a total dick.

"Truce?" she asked with a small, forced smile.

Allen blinked at her, as though he couldn't believe that _she_ of all people wanted to let bygones be bygones temporarily. "Err, right!" he stumbled over his words, blushing minutely. "Truce."

Although, it was a little stupid, because he was a southpaw and she was right-handed like the rest of the world, so they had a brief moment of confusion towards which hands to use.

They decided on the right hand after all the silliness, and Tiedoll laughed while the two rivals chuckled sheepishly over their blunder.

But, Lenalee couldn't help but wonder why Allen was smiling the entire time.

**2! Or Maybe It Isn't**

* * *

PLEASE READ IF YOU CARE FOR THE PUP'S FEELINGS:

Last chapter in the ending author's note I thought I made it clear that I did _**not**_ want to know if you did not care for the characterization or setting or whatnot. It seems that note has been disregarded by the people I appreciate the most—the readers.

I…how do I say this? Okay. I don't _write_ for the sake of getting better and whatever—I write for _fun_. I _enjoy_ writing fanfiction, I _like_ making up crazy situations and watching them come to life in words, I _love_ knowing that you might like what I took the time to imagine. It's a great source of entertainment for me, and I really enjoy doing it.

If you think it's OOC, just know that I _don't_. This fanfic in particular will begin with a past-tense narration in every chapter—I like to think that it gives an inkling of the characterizations one might be more familiar with. People change over time, and that is the main subject of this fic. "Why is Allen being a dick? And why does Allen's douchebaggery irritate Lenalee so much??" is the main question that will be answered in this AU. I've always thought it to be rude to call someone's works "OOC" before the end—judge me after it's all done plz. And if the characterizations REALLY bother you, like you can't sleep at night or some shit, then feel free to **PM me your concerns**.

So, yeah, writing to me is like a guy who plays basketball but misses the hoops everytime. I may suck, but at least I'm having fun. I love and respect you all with my whole being, and I hope I can get the same from you too

**Still no spellcheck** so do feel free to point out a SPELLING or GRAMMATICAL ERROR. :D Thank guize, you're definitely the best.

Btw those viruses that disguise themselves as Antivirus software are such ASSHOLES I just had one and it was CRAZY


	3. It's Like Melting the Arctic

Thanks guize for your support. :) You really have no idea how much that means to me

BUT, enough about that. How about some Allen/Lenalee yaoi? Some heterosexual slash? Some near-canon faggotry?

YOU KNOW YOU WANT IT

And an extra-long past-tense narrative for this chapter! You guys are, like, MIND READERS. How did you know I was going to give a flashback on this subject next?!

**3! It's Like Melting the Arctic**

* * *

A year before her first attendance to the Vatican School of Beauty and two years before all the crazy drama with her former best friend, Lenalee Lee met Yuu Kanda.

This meeting was significantly more dramatic than her others, because in order to meet a guy like Kanda, your life has to be, like, _horribly endangered_. Like, you need to be _dying_ or something.

So, because fate is a crazy bitch, it turned out that Lenalee was in an unfortunate accident.

Back then, she was taking a year off before beginning her schooling, and cosmetology was definitely in her plans at the time. She was glad to know that some things never change, unlike others.

It was when she was working at a medium-class Japanese restaurant by the handle of _Edo_ within walking distance of her brother's apartment, idly attempting to raise money for college—scholarships only covered so much for her at the time. Komui Lee, her older brother, had heavily protested this with claims that he would pay her tuition and that she should at least attempt another job somewhere else.

"I understand that the pay is good," he had said as he raked his long fingers through his silky black hair. "And, yeah, it is close by—but, this restaurant has, well, a _record_ of mishaps. And what about a kitchen fire? That can be dangerous!"

Komui was a little, err, protective. But not like he was back when they lived in England—dear God, Lenalee wanted to bludgeon him with a bowling ball if he cock-blocked her one more time.

But, regardless, Lenalee waved him off that one day with a grin. "No worries," she replied. "I'll be fine. I'm just a waitress—for the tips and all. I'm sure I won't be anywhere near the kitchen! And a kitchen fire in _this_ day and age? You are hilarious, Bro!"

And fate, the douchebag, probably said some crap like "Oh hey what's up Lenalee—man, have I got something to tell _you_! Remember that thing called _situational irony_?"

So, yeah. To make a long, depressing story short, there actually _was_ a kitchen fire.

Lenalee didn't actually remember it, though. She blacked out after inhaling so much smoke in her confusion and panic, and all that she _could_ think back on was, _I'm going to die, and I never made it to school._

She woke up three days later in the _same_ intensive care unit where her dad died, a ventilator over her mouth and a shoulder that burned like…like something that burned really badly. Fire, maybe?

But, whatever.

"You know I'm never going to let you work again, right?" Komui told her with wet eyes, a choked throat, and a white face. His hand was clenching her palm so tightly that she felt like she was losing circulation in her arm. She actually wanted to tell him this, but all she could manage was moving her lips to words she didn't remember trying to say.

The doctor messed things up for her further. "You had a bad case of smoke inhalation," Doctor Cloud Nine had explained, a clipboard in her hands. "And some minor burning. Luckily, you were rescued before any major damage could occur, so you just have a few second-degree burn scars on your back." Doctor Nine wrote her up a prescription for some medicine to help with her oxygen deprivation, and Lenalee was discharged in four days.

It was when she was back home with her brother that she discovered the most devastating effect from the fire—her hair.

Lenalee's hair had always been long and even at the ends with the exception of her bangs, and she'd be damned and dead if she wouldn't say that she was proud. Her hair was gorgeous, plain and simple.

After the accident, though, her pride was reduced to singed clumps to her lower neck, and it was horribly uneven on every side.

"How am I going to become a hair designer like _this_?" she remembered joking to Komui, who didn't laugh. It wasn't really that funny, she'd admit, but what could she do? Her favorite part of herself was ruined—it was kind of like a wannabe pitcher having to amputate his wrist.

Lenalee, though, did persevere.

She lived her life—although with more hats than she remembered owning—and applied for more scholarships than ever before. The woman needed to attend the Vatican School of Beauty more than ever now.

And, she hated to even _think_ it now, but she was kind of grateful for the loss of her hair.

Otherwise, she wouldn't have been sitting in a café mulling over her ruined locks and bleak hair design future when that tall Japanese guy wandered into the _Order_.

Lenalee hadn't really noticed him at the time. The man, despite the long hair and tight clothes, wasn't really the kind of person she paid attention to immediately. She was drinking her coffee, though, when she realized that he definitely noticed her, because he sat at her table like it _killed_ him to socialize.

"That hat is fucking _disgusting_," he had started a conversation with a scowl, and Lenalee cocked an eyebrow at him. "Yeah, yeah, I know—look, I usually hate people. I especially hate women, and I hate coffee too."

She liked to think he was the best conversation starter _ever,_ with minimum sarcasm. "…You're, uh," Lenalee had stared at him, searching for the words to use in that situation. "Um. You…_aren't helping_."

The long-haired man scowled. "Whatever. Listen, you don't know me, and I sure as hell don't know you," he continued, and the Chinese woman found herself intrigued by his acerbic attitude. It was kind of…_cute_. "But. Ugh." He smacked his forehead, scowling. "Goddammit. Your hat _bothers_ me, and I _hate_ feeling bothered."

_Hilarious guy,_ Lenalee found herself thinking with a smile behind her ceramic cup. "You're gay, aren't you?" she teased him, and laughed lightly at his horribly offended expression.

"Don't get crazy, lady," he snapped, huffing yet denying nothing, as Lenalee had noticed. He eyed the brown and black beanie on top her head, his eyebrows furrowed. "Take off your hat."

Lenalee snorted in an unladylike way. At the time, _that_ was considered the request of the century. "No way," she replied stubbornly.

"Just take off the goddamn hat, woman."

"Dude. _No_."

"I'll touch your boob," he threatened, but it hadn't worked out because he looked like the kind of guy to vomit violently after even touching a girl's bare shoulder.

_Homohomohomohomofaghomo_, Lenalee had thought the entire time. "Okay." She rolled her eyes. "It's a little gross, so don't say I didn't warn you." And she had pulled the cap off her head, just like that.

Her unexpected guest had stared for about two minutes before crossing his arms with a groan. "Goddamn, I've got my work cut out for me," he muttered, leaning back in the seat.

Lenalee was confused for a while. "Um," she fitted the hat back onto her head. "What are you talking about?"

He stuck out a hand awkwardly, scowling deeper than ever in the five minutes she knew him. "I'm Yuu Kanda, but if you call me 'Yuu' I'll probably kill your family," he said grumpily. "I'm a cosmetologist—a barber, if we have to get fucking _technical_."

"Oh dude," Lenalee was amazed. "Are you seriously a barber?" He looked like one of those menial workers who hated their jobs instead of a _barber_—like, he seemed more 'Disgruntled Secretary' or 'Infinitely Enraged McDonald's Cashier.'

Kanda looked away, huffing. "I'm a goddamn student," he admitted. "And I need some practice. You just need a fucking _cut_ like none other."

Yeah. He was a very charming person, even back then.

"I'm Lenalee Lee," Lenalee finally introduced herself with a firm handshake including Kanda. She grinned at him—she felt like this was the kind of guy she could be around for years. "I'd love it if you could cut my hair."

Despite all the grumbling and frequent complaints, Lenalee had found her second best friend after Allen in Yuu Kanda.

She also found her own personal stylist—she didn't and likely never _will_ allow anyone but Kanda to cut her hair, even to this day.

**(It's Like...)**

"Kanda," Lenalee cried, opening the doors to the barber class with as much melodrama as she possibly could muster. And she was once a teenage girl—she had a _lot_ of melodrama to spare. "_Kanda_. I'm going to kill your foster father—"

Kanda fixed a quick glare at her, swinging his straight razor against a hanging strop ominously. "_Ex_-foster father," he corrected with a sneer, the razor pausing in motion. "What the hell did that psycho do this time?"

The woman stomped into the active class and plopped onto the chair closest to Kanda's station with a huff. "So, Tiedoll started talking about, like, how good we are at hair design," she began, crossing her legs. The rest of the class mostly stared at her like they couldn't believe she had the gall to just waltz into their territory and sit in their seats. "And then he's like, 'Ha ha! But, _oui_, you have your flaws!' and tells me that I don't follow directions and Allen that his stuff is boring in a nice way."

"You don't follow directions," the Japanese man said, jerking his client's head to the side as his razor glinted in the fluorescent light. "And the faggot _is_ boring. Why are you harassing me over something as stupid as this?" The razor ran against the seated man's foam-covered stubble quickly and efficiently, but the fear in his client's eyes spoke volumes.

"I'm not done," Lenalee retorted, levelling him with an offended expression. By this time, she noticed that the class went on with their lives, because this probably happened a lot to them. "So, _anyway_, your stupidface _Frenchman_ of a foster—okay, _ex-_foster father—gives us a project."

Kanda grunted in a show that he was listening, and wiped his razor on a towel hanging from his belt. His client whimpered a little as the long-haired man forcibly turned his head with a grip on his chin. "Don't make any fucking noises unless you want me to shread the goddamn skin off your face," he said like they were discussing the weather.

"The project is that he's going to give me a style to perfect and I'm going to give him one too," Lenalee continued, sighing with a touch of agitation. "And your freaking French doucheface ex-dad is making it, like, _forty_ percent of our grades!"

That got his attention. "Forty percent?" Kanda repeated, frowning. "Shit, that's ridiculous. What kind of crack is that psycho smoking?"

She really, _really_ loved Kanda with all of her heart. "Dude, I seriously don't even know." Lenalee pushed her heel against the surprisingly clean floor and started spinning in the barber chair. "So, then he says that we have three days to do this, and that we need to check in on each other _every_ day of the project. This crap is so lame, like seriously."

"Huh." He wiped the razor against his towel again. "What's the faggot got you doing for your style, then? Something gay?"

"Like a hime cut?" she asked, but backed down at the pure undiluted _look_ he gave her. "Okay, _okay_!" Lenalee grinned, spinning faster in the seat. The guy whom of which the seat actually belonged to—a tall, wide guy with a rat-tail named Noise Marie—just leaned against his station and bobbed his head to music. He was too used to this, and she was totally cool with him for that. "I never found out. Like, the moment Tiedoll ditched the place—I _ran_."

Kanda quirked an eyebrow. "So, what the fuck is this about?" he asked, thumping the razor against his hanging strop again. "You _hidin'_ from the faggot?"

"Dude, he is _not_ a faggot," Lenalee argued. "He's totally metro. You can't call him out because things are, like, totally sucking between you and Alma."

"I'd never raise my hand towards a woman," the Japanese man replied immediately. "And I _hate_ females. But I will shave off the hair you _do_ have and leave you for dead if you mention that _motherfucker_ ever again."

_Yeesh_, Lenalee rolled her eyes. Gay drama was only good for two things: Logo movies and Japanese porn.

"He's still metro," she grumbled, taking her heeled boot from the ground and resting it on the chair's metal foothold. The spinning was starting to make her dizzy, as crazy as that seemed. "And I'm not hiding, gaylord."

Kanda snorted, but didn't answer.

Lenalee crossed her arms tighter against her chest. She wasn't _hiding_ from Allen, she was really just hanging out with her bestest friend _ever_ in the building furthest away from where she left him.

That totally wasn't hiding.

"Yo, little lady," and Marie slid the headphones down to his neck as he put a large hand on the back of his chair. The seat stopped spinning immediately, and Lenalee was left feeling a little put out, really. "We love you almost as much as we love Kanda, but our instructor's going to be coming back from his coffee break soon." The dark-skinned man smiled nervously. "And, err, your last meeting wasn't too good."

"Wait, you mean—"

"Goddamn it, Levierrer's back already?" Kanda demanded, scowling like someone kicked his dog. "_Shit_." His client looked horribly relieved at the sound that Kanda's supervising instructor was returning, but he paled when that razor was pressed against his neck's soft, fragile skin. "If you say _one_ fucking thing about me saying 'profane words' or any other incriminating shit about me, I will _kill_ you."

"Auuugh," the man whimpered, a tear leaking from the corner of his eye.

"Good." The long-haired student grunted, pleased with how intimidating he was. He turned to Lenalee, who continued to stare at him in threatening _action_. "But, yeah, you need to go. You and Levierrer? Don't you hate him more than you hate the faggot?"

Lenalee thought about it. Malcolm Levierrer was the man who told her she would never make it in hair design some time ago, but she tried not to mull on the rage associated with that. Levierrer was really just _not_ a nice man, and everything he did showed it. Lenalee liked to think she was a generally nice girl and easy to get along with until provoked by other forces (case in point: Allen 'The Pseudo-Homo' Walker).

"Well, _yeah_—"

The doors swung open like a burst of hurricane-related wind forced them, and a tall, imposing figure stood in the doorway like Satan in a rave club.

Wait. Bad comparison. She needed to think that one over.

"Gentlemen," the smooth, significantly _evil_ voice of one Malcolm Levierrer greeted, and the man stepped into the classroom slowly. Levierrer was a big man, but not in the weighty kind of way—he was big in the 'look at me! I have a toothbrush mustache in the twenty-first century and head instructor at one of the best cosmetology schools in the country! I am so much better than all of you—especially _you,_ aspiring young Chinese hair dresser with the traumatizing past!' He, as mentioned, did sport a toothbrush mustache and the most perfect dark blond flat-top haircut ever. Levierrer just _looked_ like the kind of guy you did _not_ mess with, unless you had a particular grudge.

Like, well, Lenalee.

"Hopefully you have completed your shaves with minimum issue or any complaints." The Englishman leveled an accusing glare at Kanda, who stuck up his middle finger like he didn't want to get his degree. "As tomorrow we will be moving on to shaving with electronic clippers."

All the attendees of his class grumbled a bit and nodded their assent, and Lenalee nodded too just to see if she could possibly get by while being unnoticed.

It didn't work.

Levierrer's hawk-like brown eyes roved over his now deathly silent class, probably looking for something to harp on. He got it, though, when his sight fell upon the slender Chinese woman in the seat of one Noise Marie.

"…Miss Lee," he drawled, walking towards her like she was going to die soon. "As wonderful as it might be to see you attend my class, I fear that you are not adhering to the exact schedule agreed upon."

_Oh my god, you are such a pretentious douchebag,_ she thought with a serious expression. She looked up into the eyes of her personal Satan. "Oh, yes, sir," she replied with minimum sarcasm. "I just love the atmosphere of your class."

"The stifling, paranoid feel in the air?" Levierrer replied drolly. He placed a hand on the arm of the seat, his glove brushing against her pale arm. What was up with all these British assholes and gloves? "The way I will consistently put you down because you will _never_ be successful? Or, perhaps, it is the way you enjoy the multitude of males in an enclosed space."

"Excuse me, sir?" Lenalee asked, her eyebrows furrowed. Kanda was bristling next to her, his knuckles cracking against his palm. "I'm not sure what you are implying."

A clothed finger touched her chin, and the horrible man was observing her like this was a freaking aquarium. "Your soft face and it's Oriental features, your alabaster yet flawless skin, these lively deep violet eyes, your provocative manner of dress…even your short strands of dark hair arranged into a layered bobcut." Levierrer smirked. "I'm sure that you know yourself to be attractive, as I can notice it, Marie likely notices it, Chan from the facial department _definitely_ notices it, and there is a probable high chance that every male in here notices it." He paused. "Except for Kanda, but surely he is a homosexual."

"Bitch, I will _annihilate—_" Kanda raged, very prepared to punch the life out this douchebag. Lenalee would have not hated him _at all_ if he did, by the way.

"Miss Lee, I mustn't think you to gallivant during my male-only class just to talk to Mr. Yuu Kanda," the British instructor continued. "That seems rather prude. Which surely you are not."

"Sir," Lenalee swallowed thickly, trying to make herself as small as possible within the seat if only to keep herself from touching the cruel man. "Are you implying—"

"That you have sexual relations for casual sport?" Levierrer straightened his posture, fixing his collar with a smile so _fake_ it hurt to look at. "But, of course."

Lenalee felt bile collect in her throat. This man was always good for belittling her and making her feel like the worst person to ever step onto the dirt of this earth. She wasn't a slut at all—she'd never had any real sexual activities. Except for that one time in secondary school, but she tried marijuana _once_ and whoo boy—it was _crazy_.

But she wasn't a whore.

Her eyes started burning a little, but she refused to cry over the words of this asshole. _Don't let him win,_ she told herself futilely. _Just…just don't let him win._

Kanda touched her shoulder. He knew how she got after Levierrer was near. Unfortunately, he actually _couldn't_ punch the living shit out of the British head instructor, for despite all images, Kanda really did want his degree so he could be a productive member of society. Or…whatever it is that Kandas can do best.

Levierrer glanced at her huddled body with a derisive snort. "I should inform the dean on your interuption of my class," he said in a nasty tone of voice. "Perhaps then you might cease your unwanted endeavors here."

"Or not," and another man walked through those classroom doors. Allen smiled at the old man, waving jauntily with his own gloved hand. "Top of the morning to you, Mr. Levierrer. I've come to retrieve my partner, Lenalee Lee."

The blond man narrowed his eyes at the young stylist, his upper lip curling into a defined sneer. "Allen Walker," he greeted tersely. "How…wonderful to see you." He sounded like he did not believe what was coming from his mouth.

Lenalee looked at her classmate with a confused expression. What the hell was _he_ doing here? Did he come to lord the fact that she was likely to get in trouble and he would continue on to be the best stylist because now there was no longer any competition?

"I wish to say the same to you," Allen replied in a tone laced with kindness that was just as forced and unwanted. "Regardless, could you allow me my project partner? I'm afraid that we have held up too much of your entirely important time."

God, even Lenalee had to wince. She could probably cut the sarcasm in that statement with a butter knife.

"She interrupted my class," Levierrer argued curtly. "I feel as though I am entitled to hold her for disciplining as long as I see fit."

The white-haired man narrowed his eyes. "As creepy as that sounds, I am sure she didn't _interrupt_ your class in it's entirety." He hooked a thumb in his tight-yet-fashionable blue jeans. "I mean, this _is_ Lenalee Lee. I like to think her presence made your stiff, orderly class a bit more…_interesting_?"

Lenalee caught a few nods from some of the blond man's students, and she found herself blushing. Why was Allen being such a douchebag—a _cool_ and _protective_ douchebag? And to someone other than herself?

"Mr. Walker, this is not the case—"

"Which is not for you to decide." Allen smiled at him with a wink. "I am actually tired of arguing with you. Lenalee, we need to go to the library!" He waved her over with a near-desperate look. It seemed like he _also_ couldn't stand the stiff asshole named Malcolm Levierrer.

She hopped out the seat, grinning nervously. "Oh, yeah, definitely," she replied, side-stepping Levierrer with a confidence she only had when she _wasn't_ looking at him. "Let's, uh, go. Seriously." She stood next to Allen and gave him a significant look. One she _hoped_ he could understand if he was in touch with his feminine-side at all.

He's, like, _almost_ gay, so of course he caught the look.

"To the library!" he announced, nodding at Levierrer. He did, though, stop and look at Kanda was a quirky smile. "Kanda, why, I had no idea—"

"Get out of my face, fuckoff," Kanda muttered, crossing his arms and rolling his eyes. "Don't you assholes need to be at the library? You know, for that _group project thing_ you jerks were doing?"

_You da best, Kanda-bear,_ Lenalee thought with a wide smile. She wanted to go over there and hug him, but that would have probably been all kinds of weird for him. Crazy homo.

Levierrer turned to glare at him, but Kanda wasn't _afraid_ of him. He just would never punch him or tell him off too horribly, because that would eff with his grade in the class further.

Allen sighed and waved a hand in dismissal at the Japanese man. "Really, Kanda, you continue to disregard me, but I already know I left my number in your apartment," he smiled evilly. "One day, you're going to have to phone me. My cellular phone is waiting, Kanda!" And he walked out of the class with a joyous hop in his step.

Kanda was likely about to explode if his pinched face said _anything_. "Fuck you!" he yelled at the younger man's back. "I'll make you regret—"

"Oh, dude, you had a one-night stand after breaking up with your boyfriend?" one of his classmates asked with a disapproving look. "Kanda. Just 'cause you're gay don't mean you can—"

"You want to _die, _asswipe?"

Lenalee left the class at that, chuckling to herself.

Allen Walker, he might _not_ have been that bad.

**3! Or Maybe It Isn't**

* * *

This fic is shaping up to be fun to write. Why is this so?

I actually HEART Levierrer. Once you get past the toothbrush mustache, the assholery, the weird flat-top haircut, and the squinty suspicious eyes, he's really just a big cakefag who wants some love and promotions. Lenalee doesn't see his imminent SEXY.

(as she very well shouldn't) (btw YOU GUIZE ARE SO ESP-riffic FOR DISCOVERING WHAT THE LATEST FLASHBACK WOULD BE! Gooood I love y'all, fo real)

But, yeah, so maybe I pissed off some people with my statement from last chapter, so I'm going to apologize but I'm also going to stand by that. This is a fic about change and how it can affect the people around you, because it's like…well, the title and every chapter name is a vague and weird comparison to what change is like as you get older. Made up by yours truly, of course—I cannot stand having to make up titles based on other people's works. It's original or nothing at all. (Except for AWYWI, but that follows the same titling theme as this with a common subject. This is similies and Waysie's is music)

If you though this was Kanda/Lavi or Kanda/Allen, you are horribly horribly wrong. KANDA/ALMA IN DIS BITCH! But I did give some prank Kanda/Allen just to get your hopes up. I look forward to shooting them down. :D

**S to the P to the E L L, yo I cain't spell  
'cause my spellcheck's turned off and Microsoft  
Is like 'You need the setup CD' but I bought  
this laptop, from my old computer teach'  
but damn, he's totally out of reach**  
And that was the NO SPELLCHECK RAP. Tune in next time for the NO BETA BALLAD. :D But feel free to correct any SPELLING or GRAMMATICAL errors. Nothing more, please. :D


	4. It's Like Swimming in Alaska

I will tell the truth: I have hit a minor writers block in reference to other important fics. I.e., AWYWI.

So, until I feel like writing the last 2000 words for chapter 35 of Waysie, I'm just going to keep on with this. You don't mind, ya?

:D Y'all know you love me and my horrible inconsistencies

**

* * *

4! It's Like Swimming in Alaska**

When Lenalee first moved to California in her twelfth grade of schooling, she met Malcolm C. Levierrer. As a coincidence, though, she also discovered her love of hair design.

It was like this: like many high school seniors (an American term she'd taken to immediately), she was kind of but not really sure of what she wanted to spend the rest of her life doing.

It had gotten to the point where Lenalee would constantly think of all her strong points and shoot them off her school counselor and her brother.

"I like people," she had told her counselor, a stiff Taiwanese woman by the name of Twi Chan. "I love to talk, obviously. I'm really well-travelled—like, I've been to Edinburgh, New York, Beijing, Hong Kong, and now Santa Muertos. I'm good at cooking and coffee-ing. I'm kind of an atheist, but that's just because I hate that loser of a deity, y'know, God. I've got a totally nifty red tassel in Muay Thai and I'm good with my hands. What could I do as a career?"

Miss Twi had simply arched an eyebrow at her excitability. "You could be an actual use to society," she told the Chinese teenager. "Become a secretary or an elementary school teacher. You choose."

Yeah. _No_.

Komui just shrugged when she told him her points. "You could become a spinster and live with your big brother forever." Then he proceeded to tackle-hug and tickle his little sister, the teenager simultaneously laughing and crying for him to quit it.

"I dunno," she had said after all the fun. "I am feeling very barista or something."

Komui ended up agreeing with that. She _did_ make an awesome cup of latte.

But, it was two weeks after that conversation that she was chilling in the Downtown metropolitan area of Santa Muertos, and she ended up wandering past that popular salon. _Crow_, she remembered it was called.

Hair design at the time was just something that was _cool_, if that makes any sort of sense. She liked what she saw on people's heads, provided it was done well. The eighties-styled waved layers, the elaborate perms, and even the colorful mohawks—they interested her back then, not motivated.

But, that was before she actually _saw_ it all in action.

The stylist at the station was actually a man—a man who seemed generally straight with an okay sense of fashion but a snazzy blond bowlcut and French braid in some wicked combination.

Lenalee had stared through the tinted salon window, oddly entranced by the way in which he held a lock of hair between his index and midfinger, the precise press of the scissor blades against the previously uneven strands, and even the wild spray of some liquid on particular areas of the head.

"Dude, _wow_," she had whispered before her feet led her through those glass doors.

Lenalee wandered towards the tall blond man and plopped into the salon chair nearest him, for some things hardly change.

He glanced at her minutely before returning to his work. His precise, concentrated, incredible work.

"Can I watch you?" she had asked, purely for the sake of asking. She was going to watch regardless of his answer.

"If you must," he dully replied with the slight lilt of a German accent. Then, he continued in his hair styling, and Lenalee found herself paying more attention to his hands than she did in her horribly boring Physics class. But _who_ pays attention in Physics even today?

His client, also a man, left the salon about thirty minutes later with a shorter fringe than the rest of his hair that sheened with blond highlights.

Lenalee had been very enthused. "How'd you do that flippy, squarish thing with the flat iron?" she shot off questions constantly as the stylist wiped his hands with a prim towel. "And what was that spray you used to make it all _extra_ shiny?"

"The proper term is 'crimping,'" he had replied curtly to each of her questions, looking all kinds of polite but also amused. "And it is a type of glosser for generally thick hair."

"Cool," she had said, and then continued to sit there for the next three hours.

The man's name was Howard Link, as she discovered after a hurried introduction and request to return the next day after school.

"I'd suppose," Link had responded with a slight tilt to his chin.

Lenalee generally translated that as 'Oh my god, I'd LOVE it if you could come back and watch my every waking move unnervingly with your dark violet eyes!'

"Awesome!" she replied, and went home.

"Komui!" she remembered calling her brother, excited. "I think I have a better idea of my future!"

"You're going to be a spinster?!" Jesus Christ, he had looked _way_ too happy at that prospect.

Lenalee had given him a peculiar _look_. "No," she deadpanned. A smile lit up her face. "I am feeling more barista-hair stylist now, you know?"

Komui nodded at her, and he returned his attention to his laptop. "Okay. Wait, what?"

So, yeah, it became a bit of a habit for her for, like, a week. Lenalee would wake up, go to school, leave school, go to _Crow_, and watch Link work.

"What is that?" She always had a new question for him, and it made her giddy. It was like she was a little girl again! "That _thing_. I'm not sure if it's a crimping iron or a curling iron or _both_."

"It is a hair waver," Link replied as patiently as ever. She had no idea if she was endearing herself to him back then—he was a bit of a blond statue. "A bit like a crimping iron, yet it is less…_crimp_."

Yeah. He was a very good teacher, by the way.

It was a really cool time, actually. Every day she spent in that oddly all-male salon was another day she felt like she could spend the rest of her life doing whatever Link was doing. It didn't _look_ that hard, but the same could be said for, like, Calculus, so she didn't get too crazy with her imagination.

Then, about two months before graduation, this man walked into _Crow_.

He was a tall man, first of all. Tall, broad, and very stern-looking. He had a presence one couldn't deny, but Lenalee found his toothbrush mustache a little tasteless after the World War Two Nazism thing, and his dark blond flat-top hair was looking a bit scruffy—but, he _did_ just come into a hair salon.

The weirdest thing, though, was that he was eating _ice cream_. Like, a little Baskin Robbins cup with a little pink spoon, and dear God he looked so _serious_ as he nibbled the frozen cream.

_Way to be anticlimactic,_ Lenalee probably thought. She swung her legs in the salon chair next to Link while the man immediately sat in the German man's stationary seat. He was still eating the ice cream.

The stern man swallowed the ice cream after a few more bites, and his narrowed brown eyes had finally noticed the teenaged girl in the seat next to him.

"Howard," he had begun in this careful, deep voice that _dripped_ with arrogance. "I am currently confounded on why there is a young woman in the seat next to me in a male salon."

Link just straightened out the suit cover, humming lowly in his throat. "She enjoys watching me," he had replied like it was just that simple.

Well. It probably was. "Yeah," Lenalee agreed, grinning. "It's awesome, this stuff that he does. I like it—I want to try it myself."

The stiff blond man in the chair gazed at her like she was a butterfly in a museum. "Hmph," he had sneered, looking forward as Link prepared the scissors and the clippers. "Do you see yourself doing this as a future career, young lady? Can your _mind_ process the possibilities of hair design for years?"

…_What?_ Lenalee blinked, readjusting her legs in the chair. She hadn't thought through all the years dedicated to cosmetology back then. "Um. Yeah?"

Link just sighed so quietly one probably wouldn't even notice. Unluckily, Lenalee _had_ noticed, so then she got an elite feeling that she just messed up. Big time.

"A foolish outlook is most pertinently associated with the unlearned waifs of society such as yourself," the man replied in the single most _aggravating_, _uppity_, completely _British_ tone of voice ever. "A young, frivolous woman such as yourself could never obtain even a modicum of success in the fashion industry." He sniffed haughtily, running his tongue against the gentle turn of the spoon. "Have you ever considered a simple career as an elementary school teacher?"

Lenalee had gaped at the man for the entire forty-three minutes he received his haircut. Link looked at her several times, and his lips were in a consistently straight line throughout these small glances.

The man, _Levierrer_ she learned by Link's short conversation with him, left with nary a 'thank you' or 'goodbye.'

_Asshole._ Lenalee had felt dead for a few minutes—she'd never been put down so…_harshly_. Maybe this was what the real world was like for kids like her.

Link, though, ended up being a _lot_ nicer than she first thought him to. "Have you ever heard of the Vatican School of Beauty?" he had asked her before she got up to leave.

Lenalee blinked, readjusting her knapsack. "Isn't that, like, four blocks from here?" she replied. "Yeah—it's right down the street!"

The German man nodded curtly. "I received my cosmetology degree from there," he said. "From Malcolm Levierrer. He was my instructor, ja."

"_That_ asshole?"

"Generally." Link had straightened his posture and looked her right in the eyes with his clear blue gaze. "I'd suggest that you apply if you truly desire a future in cosmetology. Otherwise, I have wasted my time in allowing you to unnervingly watch my every move while asking inane questions."

_Whoa,_ she remembered thinking. _A chance to show up that overbearing British jerk? And an opportunity to get my future together?_ "Would you write me a recommendation?" she had jokingly asked.

Yet, Link _did_ write her one. A really awesome one that made it seem like they knew each other for more than a week.

And she was accepted on a partial scholarship in a week.

She liked to think that it was the beginning of everything, for better and for worst.

But, she will _never_ thank Levierrer for anything.

**(It's Like...)**

"Wait, ugh, _slow down!_" Lenalee complained futilely as she followed the brisk walk of one Allen Walker. "Jesus Christ, are we in a marathon or are you just in a really bad hurry?"

The Englishman snorted—despite being to his back, she could _hear_ the imminent arrogance associated with every British stylist she knew. "While I understand that you are recuperating from a traumatizing experience including an overbearing _arse_ whom shall not be mentioned," he replied, stopping at a pedestrian walkway. Lenalee came to a pause beside him, and he turned to her with a smile. "It doesn't give you an excuse to be irresponsible, Lenalee. I mean, at least more so than usual."

Lenalee felt her eyebrows furrow on their own accord and for some crazy reason her fingers kept twitching in violent promise.

Allen Walker, he brought out the best and the worst in her. It was all kinds of irritating yet _amazing_.

First of all, she meant the whole 'marathon' thing as a joke—he was walking quite fast for no clear reason. For once, she was being friendly with her begrudging savior from that other asshole, Levierrer. Secondly, that wasn't supposed to be an opening for his biting words and _really bad attitude_.

No, seriously, his attitude can get _really_ ugly at times. This was just one of those times, for _some_ inane reason.

Jesus Christ, she finds the guy to be okay for _one second_ and he goes all Jekyll and Hyde on her. By that, she was referring to his bipolar 'let me save you from Creepiverrer so we can frolic into the sunset' and 'bitch, why are you such a vagina-wielding _woman_ whom is irresponsible? You know I hate women. And irresponsibility. But mostly women.'

_Faggot._ Lenalee thought spitefully. She felt some lamenting coming on, as per usual. _Why have you become this way, my old friend?!_

Regardless, she narrowed her eyes at the white-haired man. "What the hell are you _talking_ about?" she demanded, hands on her shapely hips. In the back of her mind, though, she kind of thought that they must've made quite a pair. Like her favorite couple _ever_—Kanda and his on-and-off-and-on-again boyfriend Alma. "How am I being _irresponsible_ by asking you if we're walking for cancer?"

"Lenalee." Allen sighed, running his fingers through his _perfect_ hair. "Your memory must reflect your hair design abilities—faulty and with blank spots."

_Bitch I will kill you_. "I couldn't exactly hear you," Lenalee replied, her eyebrow twitching in barely-veiled irritation. "So, could you repeat it? Except, you know, _without_ the whole _douchebag_ tone. Jerk."

The countdown timer on the other side of the street started to flash. "We have a project," he explained, and they were walking again. "Personally, I would expect you—"

Lenalee held up a hand for his silence, and she was pleased to note that it _totally worked_. "Allen," she began, her lips pursed into an unimpressed expression. "You're right for _once_ in your limp-wrist, faggoted, mansexing, makeup applying life." She sighed, shaking her head at his affronted expression. "I kind of _did_ forget about the project."

Allen sniffed in that pompous, aggravating way. "As I already knew," he replied. "And we have until _Friday_ to complete it, so—" but he was interrupted again. Lenalee could tell that her hand motions were starting to piss him off.

"Allen." She stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, her arms crossed over her breasts. "We need to get something straight here. And, no, it won't be you." Okay, she was sorry, but she couldn't help it. The opportunity was _calling_ her.

The white-haired man slowed to a stop, pivoting like a freaking _Diva_ to look at her. He cocked his head and readjusted his man-purse, looking as impatient as a polite metrosexual man can look.

"I hate you." Lenalee smiled at him. "I hate you a _lot_. You used to be my best friend, and I swear to god that I wish we could be like that again—but you are a _bitch_. You are a bitchy teenage girl in a grown man's body, and I refuse to _deal_ with it."

Allen opened his mouth, but pursed his lips with a significantly guilty look towards the ground. Actually, this is a little weird—what the hell could he be feeling so guilty about? His bitchiness? Because if he were _truly_ sorry, then Lenalee likes to think he would, well, _stop_.

"So," she continued. "We'll have to adapt or something. Make up rules."

"You can't be serious," Allen replied, frowning.

Lenalee stared at him. "I am _very_ serious," she replied calmly. One might think she _was_ being unreasonable by making up rules for a three day project, but it has to be done. Otherwise she would probably smack a bitch, and Lenalee does not want to have to come to that.

So, yeah. It had to be done.

"Can you stop making a freaking comment _every single time_ I say something?" she asked with a tone that edged on desperation. "It gets irritating—_really_ irritating. I can barely say a word in response because you are so _quick_ about it." He would've been _great_ on the Debate Team of her graduating high school, by the way.

Allen rolled his gray eyes. "And this is my fault…_how_?" he replied like Lenalee was an idiot. She gritted her teeth and told herself to calm down, because she should be _used_ to this shit after a year. "Lenalee, _darling_. I speak when I feel as though I have something to say pertaining to your opinion—which just so happens to be consistently." He cocked an eyebrow with a tilt of his chin. "I don't see why you are taking so much offense to this."

Lenalee wanted to rip out her hair. Actually, she wanted to rip out Allen's hair, because she _just_ got her hair to grow back to a reasonable length and he could probably spare a few strands for the better good of the world and her sanity.

"This is exactly what I'm talking about!" she exclaimed while the countdown timer blinked in a sign for all pedestrians to walk. "You don't _stop_—it seriously can piss a girl off, y'know?"

"Well—"

"I will get a failing grade if I have to," Lenalee said, rubbing her temples as she crossed the street. Allen was on her heels, his face in an immediate state of distress. "And if I fail? _You fail_."

The twenty-year-old man stared at her, but he didn't say a word for once in his insignificant adult life.

"As mad as it seems," he finally spoke after about a minute of silence. He touched her shoulder lightly with his black gloves, and Lenalee turned around to look into his gorgeous—shit, _gray_ eyes. "May I suggest something, then?"

Lenalee blinked. There was something about the timbre in his voice—something that reminded her of years past with a boy she used to love as a best friend. "Um," she hummed, fiddling with her jean pockets. "Sure, I guess."

"If I refrain from making these 'unnecessary' comments, as you call them," Allen began with an honest-to-god smile. None of that fake, sarcastic crap he's always pulling. "Would you allow me to style your hair?"

…Damn, she completely forgot about that. Lenalee rubbed her arm with a nervous laugh, looking around like there was something on the street that could save her from this situation.

But, it wasn't like she was afraid that Allen would mess up her hair like that fire—he was _really_ good with his hands, actually. In the matter of hair design, that is!

It was more about the _significance_ of letting this guy who has been nothing less than a complete _jerk_ for the past year of her life design the hair on _her_ head. If she let him have his way this time, there would be _no_ end to his mocking, sarcastic remarks and that _lording_ sneer he would sometimes have whenever he did something particularly great.

"…" Lenalee pursed her lips, narrowing her eyes in what she hoped was _complete_ suspicion. "And you will _stop_ making these comments forever?" she asked carefully.

Allen smiled widely, the corners of his eyes crinkling with the motion. "I cannot guarantee that," he replied honestly. "But, I can assure you that I will try my hardest. So, how does it?"

_Why are you so fucking bipolar?!_ It was really hard to _truly_ hate Allen Walker—kind of like how it is difficult to hate a kitten. Sure, they scratch at you and ruin your furniture and that _one_ pair of shoes you _really_ liked, but there are just those times where they rub against you looking all cute and stuff.

God, Lenalee hated cats _so hard_.

"I'll…uh, I'll seriously consider it," she said after a while, which apparently was all that was needed to make Allen bright up like the freaking sun. "But, you still need to cut back on those comments, Walker!"

The Englishman laughed, delighted. "I will indeed try," he replied, and he held out his long-sleeved denim jacket clad arm. "Now then, Lenalee. Shall we go to the library?"

**(It's Like...)**

Lavi sighed, a hand on both their heads. "Guys," he began smartly. "If you keep glaring at each other, you'll both, like, spontaneously combust. Then I won't be able to take nude photos of y'all, and don't you know how much of a _shame_—"

Lenalee punched him in the stomach. He coughed dryly. "Thanks, Lavi," she replied with a terse smile. "For, you know, caring. Unlike _some_ assholes who shall not be named. You know, Allen."

Allen smiled, resting his chin on an upturned palm. "Have I offended you, Lenalee?" he asked in such an insincere voice she wanted to throw a chair at him.

"Rrrngh," she replied in a frustrated garble. The short-haired woman pointed at the magazine in front of her angrily, looking up at the smug Englishman. "What the _hell_ is this?"

Lavi looked down at it, squinting at the bright image. "Oh, uh," he spoke, frowning a bit. "I think that's what my prom date wore. Before, you know, the sex."

"Lavi. Just, stop talking." Lenalee shook her head. She loved him, he was a _genius_, but sometimes he just _said_ things that were…out there. "Let Allen answer, since he knows _everything_."

"It's a highlighted updo with a French pleat as the median of the scalp division," Allen explained, pointing at the generic white woman in the glossy photograph. Lenalee continued to gape at the man, completely disbelieving. "As you may see, it requires much concentration if you want it _perfect_, and I feel as though it may be a…challenge for you."

Lenalee finally shut her mouth and rubbed the bridge of her nose. "You're an ass," she finally said with more patience than she thought she possessed. "This isn't my style. I don't _do_ those preppy prom styles that Lavi gets off on."

"Totally," Lavi agreed, grinning. "She's more of a…punkish-in-your-face-I-didn't-pay-for-this-hairstyle kind of girl, y'know?"

She smiled at him and pinched his cheeks. "I couldn't've said it better, you crazy one-eyed voyeur," she teased.

Allen rolled his eyes. "_Anyway_," he said in a huff, crossing his arms. "I could've sworn that the entire reason of this project was to go outside your comfort area. As in, try something _different_?"

"But, it's _prom hair_—"

"Do stop complaining, Lenalee." He smiled in an almost _playful_ manner. "For some reason, regardless of how atrocious the results are, Tiedoll always gives you an exceedingly good grade."

_Was…_ Lenalee began to think with raised eyebrows. _Was that a compliment? I can't tell if he's being sarcastic or sarcastic-sincere._ "Um, thanks," she replied just in case it was the latter. Lavi chuckled, tipping back his seat, and she considered tripping him just for her own perverse satisfaction. "Anyway!"

"Anyway," Allen agreed, smiling wider. "I can only assume that you have something for me as well?"

…_Shit_. She didn't think of one for him at all, really.

"Um." Lenalee looked at Lavi, who made a show out of pulling out his phone while trying to text someone. She looked down at the picture of the updo example, and secretly gagged at how horribly _preparatory_ it was. She could deal with prep, but not _that_ prep.

Wait, how about a hairstyle that was slightly prep…but also so simply punk that Allen would _never_ be able to perfect it?

Lenalee grinned, flashing a line of white teeth. "What about a fauxhawk?" she asked slyly.

Allen's smile faltered, and he stared at her like was either stupid or an immigrant or both. "Um." He leaned back in his wooden chair, crossing his arms. "Are you trying to insult me?"

"Are _you_ saying that you can't do it?" she retorted, quirking an eyebrow. Oh, this was going to be _great_.

He scoffed. "If I could not do _that_," he replied, gesticulating wildly about the general idea of a _fauxhawk_. "Then I'd either be mentally challenged or worse, an American Southerner." Then, he shuddered at the very _thought_ of being from the South.

Lavi barked a laugh, his thumb moving at an inhumane speed along the phone's keyboard. "C'mon, Britman," he purred lowly. "You're doing that thing where you underestimate shit." He pointed at his own red hair, grinning. "What makes you think a fauxhawk isn't hard? I'll tell you now that Yuu just about _shaved_ clean off the two attempts I tried at it."

Allen looked at him for a long minute. "As I said," he continued with a wider smile than ever. "Mentally challenged."

"Then, I'm glad we've got this figured out," Lenalee replied, snickering. "Get ready to waste a few mannequins, by the way."

Her male rival rolled his eyes like she made a particularly unfunny joke.

Lenalee shrugged. Allen Walker was going to get the surprise of a _lifetime_.

**4! Or Maybe It Isn't**

* * *

I am so freaking tired guize

GOD I just want to SLEEEEEP but regardless, I've finished this chapter. Now I shall slumber to my heart's content

Link is moar important than you probably thought. :D He's awesome WHEN POSSESSED unlike Levierrer who is sexy no matter WHAT. Of course that wasn't sarcasm. As well, a fauxhawk is not nearly as easy to accomplish as sexy Beckham makes it seem mmm so sexy

Yet, just to satisfy my sick curiosity, I find myself wondering what y'all think Allen's up to. Like, he goes from dick to darling constantly, and Lenalee's point of view doesn't know what to think of it. What do you think of it, I wonder

**I want to know what it means  
What it means to write a story  
I want to see what you read  
When you get a fic that is of utmost quality **

**I want to do what I see  
Is the best way to write a romance  
I want to spell correctly  
And I'd like it if you gave me one more chance **

**Please **

**Because I don't have a **_**beta**_**  
They make me uncomfortable  
Like, really really uncomfortable  
I don't trust **_**other people**_**  
Looking over my own shit and  
Telling me what I could've done better  
I don't have an **_**editor**_**  
Because I kinda like sentence fragments  
Regardless of their imminent opinion  
I don't like **_**that person**_**  
Who wants to take my chapter  
And completely rewrite it **

**So, uh  
I want to tell you all now  
That there may be an issue  
I want to see if you'll allow  
My paranoia to not offend you **

**So if I fucked up the grammar  
Would you tell me please  
**

That was the NO BETA BALLAD. It can kind of go with the sounds of Foreigner's "I Want to Know What Love Is" because the eighties are REALLY AWESOME. Tune in next time for your regularly scheduled explanations of no spellcheck or beta, so please feel free to tell me what's wrong here


End file.
